


Lighting a Candle

by DisposalUnit



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Light Rinch if you want it to be, Misunderstandings, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 20:58:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1200300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisposalUnit/pseuds/DisposalUnit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John returns to the library after saving a Number, he finds evidence that suggests the worst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lighting a Candle

When John returned to the library in the afternoon, he could smell the incense before he’d even made it up the library stairs.

When he reached the work area Bear greeted him happily, but Finch was nowhere in sight. As he came closer to Finch’s desk, he saw three religious candles, spaced between the computer monitors, each with a colorful portrait of a saint printed on the glass, and each glowing with flame. A small ceramic censer at the edge of the desk emitted a steady thread of sweet and floral smoke. The nearby wastebasket overflowed with crumpled tissues.

“Finch?” No answer.

It wasn’t like Finch to burn anything in the library. It wasn’t professional. Besides, the smoke and soot might even harm his precious first edition books.

Bending down to inspect the iconography on the candles, John’s heart sunk. It had been decades since he’d been in a church, but some of the things he’d been forced to learn as a child stuck with him even now.

Saint Peregrine Laziosi, the patron saint of those afflicted with cancer.

Saint Jude Thaddaeus, the patron saint of lost causes and desperate situations.

Saint Joseph, the patron saint of the dying.

John pulled out Finch’s desk chair and managed to sit before his legs became too unsteady to hold him up.

Finch had gone to a medical appointment that morning, John knew. And now the ever-logical, ever-rational, hardly-spiritual Finch had turned to faith and was burning prayer candles for healing.

Harold was dying.

John’s head bowed in grief, which quickly became a desperate, silent prayer. He doubted God would even listen to a prayer from someone like him, who had killed more times than he could begin to count, and had often taken pleasure in taking human lives. John considered himself damned beyond redemption, but Harold-- Harold had only goodness in his heart, and had given up so much to help others. Of all the injustices in the world, Harold receiving a death sentence by cancer seemed the most unfair, John thought.

Finch soon emerged from the hallway, his eyes red and swollen. He sniffled to clear his nose. “Mr. Reese?”

John looked up from his million-mile gaze, eyes haunted and filled with tears. “Finch...” He made no move to vacate his friend’s chair, taking slow, shuddering breaths, lips parted to say words he desperately needed to, but that he couldn’t even begin to form.

Finch approached, putting a hand on John’s shoulder and bending slightly to better look him in the eye, his face awash with concern. “Mr. Reese, are you all right?”

“No,” John rasped, the back of his throat aching with emotion. His boss, his friend, his Earthly savior, his _everything_ was leaving this world. Leaving him behind. Leaving him alone. His tears overflowed and ran in rivulets down his cheeks and he clenched them shut, covering Finch’s hand with his own.

“John, what is wrong?” Finch whispered, anxiety, if not terror, filling his voice.

John stood and took Finch’s frail frame into a gentle but desperate bear hug. “I can’t lose you, Harold. I can’t.”

“Lose me?” He awkwardly returned the hug. “What are you talking about?”

“Your diagnosis. God, Finch. Is there any hope at all?”

Finch took John by the shoulders and gently pushed him back so that he could see his face. 

“John... I don’t understand. Why on Earth are you so upset that I have hay fever?”

John froze.

“Hay fever?”

“Yes, John. It’s far from serious. As soon as I can get my prescription filled, I should be less bothered by whatever pollen I’m reacting to.”

“But... Why the candles?”

“Ah, yes. I left Bear in the library while I was at the doctor’s this morning, and in my absence, he got into the trash. It appears that sometime this morning, _someone_ threw away last week’s Ethiopian and Indian take-out leftovers in an open wastebasket.” He sighed, making sure that Mr. Reese knew that _he_ knew exactly who that _someone_ was.

“Apparently Bear’s digestive system is having a rather difficult time with the doro wat and lamb vindaloo, and has since been producing gaseous emissions of a particularly putrid nature. It got to the point that I had to make a quick trip to the nearest retail establishment that stocks candles, which happens to be a botanica.” 

John blinked. “So you just grabbed random religious candles off the shelf?” 

“Yes. I would have preferred scented candles of some kind, but none were available. However, any open flame can help eliminate the odor of _certain volatile gases_. The incense was merely an afterthought.” 

John was silent for a moment. Then he began to chuckle, and broke in a wide grin. He gave Finch another quick hug and started for the stairs. 

“John, wherever you’re going, please take Bear with you.” 

“I’m headed to Saint Patrick’s, Finch. I don’t think they allow dogs.” 

“Hmm. Perhaps they’d make an exception so that you could have Bear’s hindquarters sanctified.” 

_Fin_

**Author's Note:**

> This silliness came about when I wondered how Finch would handle the situation if Bear got a bad case of flatulence, as dogs sometimes do.


End file.
